


We Fly by Night

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Office, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Illustrated, M/M, Mattress Companies, Omega Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Soul Markings, Soulmates, deancastropefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith, finance manager at one of America’s best mattress companies, has a problem. Namely, an unintelligible mark on his arm that won’t disappear, no matter how many times he tattoos over it. On top of sleepless nights and less than pleasant days, a new intern is dropped in his lap without notice, a man with cobalt eyes and rain-drenched hair and a scent Dean can get lost in.</p>
<p>This may be a bad, bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Fly by Night

**Author's Note:**

> While this takes place in Terrible Life 'verse, Dean's parents are John/Mary and his brother is Sam.

_It’s back._

Staring up at his wrist in the dim light pouring through silk blinds, Dean Smith let out a rough sigh, jaw clenched at the unintelligible white script emblazoned over the deep blue of his tattoo, rose petals marred for the seventh time in the last two years. _Two years_ —and every time, he was forced to change his plans for the day and get it covered before anyone noticed, before the thought of it reared its ugly head. The last thing he needed was someone finding out about _this_.

“Can’t even read it,” Dean mumbled to himself and let his hand drop, fisting the cotton sheets with enough force to tear. His heart wasn’t in it though, neither his body nor his mind wanting to do much more than just lay in bed listening to the rain pattering on the roof. Friday—no one should have to go into work on Friday, especially in this weather. Outside, he watched the trees in the yard sway in the breeze, rain blowing sideways on occasion, enough to rustle the leaves. It would be soothing if his wrist didn’t burn, a persistent itch that most likely wouldn’t go away until the dull thrum of the needle pierced into him again, erasing the letters for a few more months.

The longer he could hide it, the better. No one at the office needed to know of his status, needed to worry about his competency over SleepTite’s books, just because he was… _this_. He shouldn’t have even been hired; thanks to the collection of near-empty pill bottles in his medicine cabinet, no one knew any different. Another month, and he would be stuck on ‘paid vacation’ for a week in bed, sleeping the days away until it was over and he could walk without wanting to fall over. He was thirty; he shouldn’t have had to live like this. An unmated Omega in the city? The ensuing scandal would drive him out of Atlanta, maybe even the state.

At that point, it would be a blessing—at least then, he wouldn’t have to stare at a computer screen all day. The headaches weren’t worth it in the end.

Valencia greeted Dean by chirping from underneath the covers at the foot of the bed, worming her way up to the pillows to peek her gray head out, her one eye dilating with the new light. “Least you’re here,” Dean murmured, low, reaching over to rub between Valencia’s ears, her purr vibrating through his palm. “You want your sweater?

Throughout his routine—shower, hair, suit and tie, reading the paper over breakfast and chugging more coffee than probably necessary—Valencia followed at his feet, occasionally weaving between his legs to trip him up, all while chirping with content. “One day you’re gonna knock me over,” Dean scolded when she jumped on the kitchen table, purposefully butting his head, her tail twitching. “You want your daddy to fall down?”

Valencia didn’t answer, just continued to purr.

Before Dean left for the day—a half day, at least—he pulled out two sweaters from a basket by the living room couch and laid them on the floor, allowing Valencia to pick her attire; she forwent the red plaid in favor for sky blue, the fabric probably the softest of her collection. Spoiled cat, really—but she was all he had, at least until his brother visited over the summer when he wasn’t teaching. Then, maybe she could take _him_ down for once, instead of trying to send Dean flat on his face every morning.

She was curled up in a ball in the recliner by the time Dean left through the attached garage, rain pinging off the roof of his Mini Cooper, streaming down the windshield when he pulled out into the driveway. Still inside, a tarp covered his father’s Impala, dusty and disused; eventually Dean would fix her, when SleepTite wasn’t busy stealing his soul from seven to four every day. Maybe one day, he would actually use his vacation days for something other than hiding from society for an entire week. For now though, he closed the garage door with the remote and backed into the street, the dulled black of her exterior a distant memory.

Only half of the office was there today, Dean noticed, stepping off the elevator to the thirty sixth floor; most of the cubicles sat empty, a few heads visible above the gray partition walls, florescent lights bathing their heads. Dean walked past and waved to the few that braved the storms, some engrossed in their work, others busy doing _anything_ else. Outside the window in his office, lightning cracked along the horizon, thunder sounding a handful of seconds afterwards. At least he could leave at two—if he worked through lunch, maybe even sooner.

Emails were his first priority. Seating himself at his desk, Dean briefly glanced over the thirty-five emails listed in his inbox and dropped his briefcase atop a cleared area next to the golf club-shaped pen holder and an empty paper tray. He ignored flipping on the overhead lights in favor of the single desk lamp, the room bathed in soft yellow while he scrolled through his inbox. Nothing entirely pressing, aside from a few marked ‘URGENT’ and some that snuck past the spam filter. A message from his brother came through around nine last night, a response to Dean’s question about this week’s Bachelorette, the message box now featuring several pictures of cats.

Another sat at the bottom of the list from HR, the header notifying him of a new group of interns for the office, specifically in the finance division. Just what Dean needed, a bunch of snot nosed college kids shadowing him and the rest of the office for half the year. What was he even supposed to _do_ with them? He could barely stay awake at his _own_ desk, let along teach someone else how to make calls. Hopefully they wouldn’t come to him— _hopefully_ , he wouldn’t have to put up with anyone other than himself, at least until he could walk into the tattoo shop in Little Five and figure out a more permanent solution to his predicament.

Twenty minutes in, and closing time wasn’t coming fast enough. In the solitude of his office, Dean sat back in his chair and palmed his eyes, the silence short lived; two knocks startled him alert, and barely a second after, Aaron rushed into the room, his hair in disarray, eyes wide with his hand on the doorknob. Sweat beaded from hair hairline. “I couldn’t find him,” Aaron said between breaths, patting his heart. “The rest of them came in this morning, but I couldn’t—”

“ _Breathe_ , Aaron,” Dean said, rising from his seat with his hands splayed across the desktop. Seeing Aaron that early in the morning wasn’t entirely out of the norm, especially on Fridays—but now, winded and frantic, Dean’s concerned deepened. “Couldn’t find _who_?”

“Him.” Aaron thumbed over his shoulder. Dean glanced up at the new addition to the room: he was certainly somewhat shorter than Dean, with a mop of dark, drenched hair covering cobalt blue eyes, his tan coat and the suit underneath soaked through to the skin, and waterlogged shoes no doubt staining the industrial grade carpet. Intern— _this_ was his intern? “…I’ll leave him with you,” Aaron remarked, and closed the door behind him.

The man didn’t speak at first, just ran his hands through his hair while Dean watched, transfixed. This—This _man_ , this obvious _Alpha_ , was his intern; he had to be at relatively close in age, with a facial structure that any male model would be envious of, all cut lines and full lips, with hard, sullen eyes and stubble dotting his jaw. Attractive, for sure, accompanied by the faint scent of swamp water and cotton, mildly unpleasant. If anyone, Dean had expected someone younger, shorter, more riled. Not someone older, so…

“I apologize,” the man started, offering his hand, still wet from the rain; Dean, rounding his desk, shook it regardless, captivated with his eyes, so blue despite everything else. “I suppose introductions are in order.”

“…You first,” Dean said, reluctantly pulling his hand away, only to wipe it on his pant leg. “Look like you just walked in out of the river.”

“Someone stole my umbrella on the train, so I had to walk from North Avenue to here.” Dean winced in sympathy, hissing through his teeth. “Castiel Evans. I’m a doctorate student at Georgia Tech.”

Doctorate. So that explained his age, but not necessarily why he was there in the first place. Castiel had already been in college for years—what was Dean supposed to teach him? What was he even supposed to _do_? Maybe the email held some sort of answer, still pulled up on his monitor waiting for him to actually read it.

But he couldn’t—not when his every other sense was preoccupied, more enrapt than disgusted that a strange man was dripping rainwater all over the carpet. “I have a few towels,” Dean blurted, catching Castiel’s attention. There should really have been a manual for this, how to communicate with strange Alphas in the office. The Omega Manual, a gift from his boss’s boss three years ago, still sat on his shelf, a perfect mirror to everything he needed at that exact moment. “I—They’re for spills, but they should work—”

“That’ll be fine,” Castiel sighed, grateful.

With that, Dean fished a clean washrag from the lowermost drawer and handed it over to Castiel, who was already in the process of shedding his coat and hanging it on the wall rack next to Dean’s suit jacket. He shouldn’t have watched, really, shouldn’t have cared that some stranger was undressing and toweling himself dry in the middle of his office, his hair in complete disarray by the time he was done.

Anyone else, and Dean would have sat down and left them to their business, but not Castiel, the first person to step into his office in weeks that lacked the scent of fear clinging to their every word, the first person that actually looked him in the eye without their hands shaking at their sides. Something about Castiel exuded confidence, a sense of purpose with every breath he took.

With just a few sentences, Dean was smitten. “‘M not sure what you’re expecting out of today,” Dean shrugged, seating himself; across the room, Castiel continued to dry the few spots on his button down, jacket spread over the back of an extra chair. “I’m planning on leaving early, so if you wanted—”

“A nap would be preferable, actually,” Castiel suggested, abandoning the rag on top of the chair.

Dean quirked a brow. “Can’t sleep at home?”

“Hardly.” Castiel sat, head in his hands. “My neighbors have gotten into the habit of vacuuming at two in the morning every night for the past week. My professors are starting to believe I’ll likely have a stroke in class.”

Dean could relate, really; apartment living wasn’t kind to anyone, especially with unpredictable neighbors up at all hours of the night. Never before had he heard of someone _vacuuming_ that late though, without having a noise complaint called on them. But if it got him out of having to immediately set Castiel on a career track, he would take it. “Knock yourself out,” Dean said, going for nonchalant. With most of his weight, he pushed a small four-by-four mattress out through the foot-tall gap underneath his desk, the weight thumping against Castiel’s chair. “Footrest, but sometimes I’ll hide from IT under there.”

A smile cracked Castiel’s lips ever so slightly. “You’re not what I expected,” Castiel admitted and stood, pulled the mattress to a corner of the office, next to a bookshelf littered with manuals and client folders and company-branded trinkets.

_Neither are you_ , Dean mulled. “And what’d they tell you when you signed up here?”

“I was expecting someone… shorter.” Castiel slipped off his shoes by the door and, sitting, laid back to where his head hit the mattress. “Someone that didn’t smell like roses.”

Flowers—always _flowers_ , even with the blockers. “Some people find that attractive,” Dean joshed, halfhearted.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Castiel shot back, one eye open, and if Dean looked hard enough, he could have sworn he saw Castiel smirk.

Dean hid his face behind his monitor, fisting his hand under the desk. Of course Castiel wasn’t objecting; wasn’t there something in the code of conduct about fraternizing on company time? Did it really count when they weren’t paying one of the parties? Would anyone even _care_?

On the screen, the email still sat, SleepTite Mattress Company’s header standing out four times larger than the body font. “You got about six hours,” Dean mumbled and sat back, scanning over the file, his foot bouncing under the desk with nothing to muffle the sound. “…Welcome to SleepTite, home of America’s best mattress.”

-+-

The rain hadn’t stopped, Castiel noticed the following morning, a puddle beginning to form on the interior side of his front door. The courtyard must have flooded again, the runoff having no place to go but in, especially with how saturated the ground had become in the last few weeks. Rain had been the main staple over the summer, mostly popup showers that soaked the streets in the few minutes they were there before they evaporated, gone as fast as they came. This was different—maybe tropical, maybe a stalled front that intended to drown the city again, or at least his neighborhood.

The hotels in the area were probably open, Castiel considered, dazed, before peeling himself off his leather couch and folding his blankets over the back. A few feet away, his television sat on static, volume low enough to drown out the constant screech. That was his life, living in a five-hundred square foot excuse of an apartment in the southwest suburbs of Atlanta, his only furniture an old couch and a television set, along with various pots and pans bought from Goodwill a few months ago, and a particularly sad looking cactus from IKEA, the only thing he could afford in the store.

There were few certainties in his life that Castiel clung to, albeit with reluctance: the weatherman was always wrong, the lottery never paid out to those who needed it the most, and his parents were the root of all his issues. Without their decision to downgrade _massively_ and shove all their belongings into a three-hundred square foot house on wheels, Castiel would have been stable, able to work at his leisure and finish his degree without having to deal with the insecurity of living alone in a strange part of town with barely enough money to get through the week. Eviction loomed heavy on his mind, along with the idea of living under the bridges downtown with the rest of the vagrants, doomed to drown in the humidity and the never ending rain.

At least the internship was something he could look forward to, unpaid or otherwise. From what he could tell, manager Dean Smith was nice enough, though sullen and rough, an inescapable air of loneliness looming around him. Whether periodic or a permanent staple of his nature, Castiel didn’t know—didn’t know if he would ever find out, either, not if Dean didn’t plan to keep their relationship strictly in-office. Not that the idea of _courting_ Dean was particularly appealing, but… He _smelled_ nice. Roses and sugar, enough sweetness to cloy his senses. Alpha, definitely not. Maybe Omega, but more than likely Beta.

From the moment he walked into the office, Dean remained a mystery in every way.

Thunder cracked overhead, startling Castiel even more than the knock to his door, both insistent and rattling the house. Maybe they were planning to evict him now in the middle of a rainstorm. He couldn’t live on the street—how was he supposed to survive? He would rather die than have to take one step outside.

Which was probably what lead Castiel to brandish a steak knife when he swung the door open, prepared to make a scare off his visitor—or, at least make a quick getaway if need be. Dean’s terrified face greeted him instead, one hand on an umbrella, his other raised as he took a step back, stepping into a puddle and muddying his tennis shoes. Dean— _Dean_ was there, and Dean knew where he lived. “How did you find me?” Castiel managed, swallowing down his residual fear and lowering the knife.

“I looked at your file,” Dean supplied, just as frightened; he smelled off, flowers marred with ink and antiseptic, unappealing. “Can I come in? ‘Least before I gotta start building an ark.”

Castiel let him inside with some reluctance, returning the knife to its drawer while Dean slipped his off his shoes, umbrella left outside the door. Better out there then ruining the floors indoors, anyway. “That’s very Alpha of you,” Castiel remarked, returning to the living room; outside, lightning flickered through the windows, bathing the room in white light, the only illumination he had aside from the kitchen or bathroom. “Stalking someone you just met.”

Dean snorted, running a wet hand through his hair, strands sticking up at the edges. Here, Dean carried himself differently, his shoulders softer, skin no longer hidden under striped shirts and suspenders; now, he wore jeans and a loose button down, his sleeve barely hiding the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, still wrapped in a thin sheet plastic wrap. “I just got to thinking,” Dean admitted, eyes to the floor. “…I saw the name of your complex, just didn’t think you were actually living… _here_.”

Castiel bristled at Dean’s wide gesture to the room, at Castiel’s couch and television, at the sad cactus in the window. It may not have been much, but it was all he had, aside from his other belongings in his bedroom-turned-closet. Not even a bed or a mattress, nor a dresser. Nothing to his name but a wallet and second hand furniture. “Some of us can’t afford luxuries,” Castiel sighed, visibly slumping. The couch cushions whooshed underneath him, aged leather sagging under his weight. “Right now, this is all I need.”

At the other end of the sofa, Dean made a noise, crossing his arms. “You can’t mean that,” he said, serious. Castiel just rolled his eyes. “You—You’re getting your doctorate. Why are you _here_?

Castiel sunk further into the back of the sofa, cursing his very existence. “Because my parents, who so _graciously_ let me live with them while I was finishing my degrees, found out tiny homes existed and sold their entire estate to buy one.” Dean hissed through his teeth; Castiel didn’t blame him. “I think they’re in Montana, for now.”

“So they just _left_ you?” Dean blurted, affronted. “Just like that?”

“Granted, my brother and sister are already living elsewhere with their families,” Castiel shrugged. “I had been planning to leave once I started my restaurant, but just… not this _soon_.”

After a breath, Dean joined him, keeping a seat length between them. “Shoulda at least gave you warning,” Dean muttered, hands in his lap. “…Dad died couple’a years ago, ‘n we thought he didn’t leave a will ‘til me and my brother cleaned out the attic a few months after. Thought he had one of those… reverse mortgages and the bank would take it, but turned out we owned it.” He stopped and cast an apologetic glance to Castiel. “Know it’s not the same—”

“It’s not,” Castiel cut him off. This man was his boss, his _superior_ —and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “…I take it you’ve always been the type to get what you want,” he started, eyes to the floor. “Your first job out of college, all your loans paid off, nice house, nice car. Six figure salary, white picket fence. You don’t… I never got that.” Castiel looked to his socked feet; he couldn’t bear to see Dean’s face drop, the pity in his eyes. “I had to work through high school. My parents spent all their money on traveling while I supported myself. I’m living off student loans, and I can’t afford to work and continue classes while I’m—”

“Live with me.”

Castiel nearly choked on his tongue. Despite the red tinging Dean’s ears, Dean never appeared unsure, his jaw clenched, eyes firm, almost in challenge. “You can’t be serious,” Castiel said, just low enough to elicit a hidden shiver from Dean. “I don’t need your pity, Smith.”

“I’m not pitying you,” Dean bit back. He straightened himself further, pulling one knee onto the couch. “Look… I’m in a house on Moreland. I got more space than I need, I’m ten minutes from work, and you need a place to stay. Plus, you won’t have to take MARTA every day.” Castiel barely suppressed a shudder at the idea; stepping foot on that train filled him with dread every day, memories of service delays and bomb scares and strangers staring at him for minutes on end almost unbearable. “Just… think about it. Even if you just want to crash until you get back on your feet, I have a spare room. You don’t gotta stay forever, just… If you wanna stay here, I’m not gonna stop you.”

Exhaling through his nose, Castiel picked at a loose thread in his sleep pants, almost ready to tear a hole into them. “You don’t even know me,” Castiel said, almost inaudible.

“Let me find out,” Dean offered, extending a hand. Castiel watched him, clenching his fist on his thigh. “We’re gonna be working together, so maybe it’ll make it easier.”

In silence, Castiel sat, alternating between looking at Dean’s face and his hand, his heart rattling in his chest. The offer sounded too good to be true—who wanders into an internship one day and gets offered a bedroom along with it? Maybe in Hollywood, but not here, not in his actual life. “You’re lying,” Castiel reiterated, his heart no longer in it.

“I’m not.” Lowering his hand, Dean never broke eye contact, more stern than ever. “…Just until you get on your feet.

Castiel bowed his head, inhaled. “…For a few weeks,” he conceded. “Until I can find a place that isn’t infested with mold.”

Dean chuckled, oddly triumphant; Dean steeled himself, fisted his hands. “Want me to help you pack?”

-+-

For all intents and purposes, Dean never expected his morning to end up this way. Sure, he imagined waking to the sound of rain for the third day in a row, perhaps with Valencia trying to sleep on his head like she did every Sunday, but not… whatever _this_ was. For the first time in weeks, _months_ , he felt content, surrounded by warmth and an indescribable aroma, something whole and new and _intense_ seeping into his bones. Strong arms wrapped around his center, pulling him flush to an equally firm body, legs tangled with his own, with warm, steady breaths puffing onto his neck in even intervals.

For once, everything felt… _clear_. Sun shone through the blinds for the first time in a week, bathing the room in yellow light, the trees outside swaying with the breeze. At least, he could have seen it, if it weren’t for Valencia sitting in front of his face, her one eye glaring down at him. At some point in the morning, she had dug one of her sweaters out from her basket and dragged it onto the bed, nudging the article up under Dean’s chin in anticipation of him waking.

How was he supposed to function when someone was practically _cuddling_ him? Any other time, Dean would have elbowed the guy awake and kicked him out of bed, but not now, now that he knew Castiel was living in the same house across the hall—or, was _supposed_ to be across the hall. Now, Castiel’s scent greeted him, pressed close and intertwining with his own, intoxicating.

The thought of _mates_ fluttered through his mind for a fleeting second, the only possible explanation. Never before had anyone smelled like _that_ in his bed, impossibly soft and approachable; he could get a candle made out of it, let it burn on the nights he needed it the most, when Castiel would move on and leave him behind. Because Castiel would never stay; no one ever stayed, not as long as work remained Dean’s top priority, not as long as the damn _mark_ kept coming back and reminding him that unless his mysterious mate dropped into his lap, it would always be there, lingering.

If only he could burn it off, maybe that would be easier.

Valencia butted his nose with her forehead, her ear folding against his mouth. Dean resisted the urge to sneeze, just barely; hypoallergenic his ass. As long as she didn’t come near his face, he was normally fine; now, she remained insistent, her purrs growing louder as the seconds passed. “Five minutes,” Dean hissed, eyes pinched shut. “Gotta get huggy bear up.”

Pleased with his answer—Dean always _swore_ she could understand him—Valencia hopped down from the bed and pranced out the bedroom door, left ajar at some point in the night. Most likely when Castiel wandered in, probably sleepwalking—was he even aware of where he was? “Castiel,” Dean mumbled, shifting; Castiel held him closer and buried his nose in Dean’s nape, almost on reflex. “ _Cas_ , c’mon. You’re crushin’ my lungs.”

“Smell nice,” he heard Castiel say, slurred; was he even awake? “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Figured,” Dean replied. Castiel pulled him even closer and fisted Dean’s shirt, intimate in a way Dean hadn’t felt in years, almost carnal. Like Castiel was actively trying to scent him, crawl inside his skin. “So you figured you’d crawl in bed with me?”

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” Gradually, he felt Castiel loosen his hold and pull away, finally allowing Dean to roll onto his back; his numb arm thanked him with pinpricks in his fingers, painful and heavy. On the other side of the bed, Castiel sat up with his head in his hands, smothering a yawn. “I’m sorry if I made you… uncomfortable.”

The problem was, Dean couldn’t find it in him to _be_ uncomfortable. Sleep had been elusive for the last few weeks, the collective effort of finalizing second quarter reports having taken most of his strength and free time, leaving him up at all hours and barely sleeping the minimum. And now, with only the power of _being_ there, Castiel successfully coaxed him into sleeping from midnight to nearly nine, straight through the night. Rested didn’t cover it—he felt _exhilarated_ , his bones no longer weighing him down.

“’S fine,” Dean said through a yawn, stretching under the sheets. “Just… Didn’t expect you to start _cuddling_ me.”

Castiel didn’t respond immediately, too busy taking in Dean’s room in the daylight. White-painted shelves lined the walls, filled with books and his high school golf trophies, along with odd statues bought from antique stores over the years. A variety of pillows covered the top of his dresser and the table in the corner, all designated for Valencia to lay in when the sun hit them just right. Above them, his television sat mounted on the wall directly across from the bed, shut off, reflecting the two of them still under the sheets, Castiel shirtless and Dean sweating under his collar.

  _That_ was new. Granted, Dean had only known Castiel for two days, but during those scant few hours together, the most skin he had seen of Castiel had been at his apartment in his pajamas. Dean swallowed at the way Castiel’s back rippled when he reached down to pull on his shirt, covering the vast expanse of black swirls decorating every inch of his back, dipping below the waistband of his boxers. Tanned, tattooed, and toned beyond comprehension—Dean willed his erection down by sheer willpower.

“I don’t make a habit of getting into bed with people I stay with,” Castiel amended, now standing and tugging on his sweatpants, ratty and in need of patches in some places. Well loved. “I’m not used to associating with Omegas. You smelled different… Calmer.”

Omega—Castiel _knew_? “Makes you think I’m an Omega?” Dean ventured, cautious as he sat up, stretching his arms above his head, shirt riding up to expose the ink on his hip, a collection of rounded lines forming no distinguishable shape. But Castiel recognized it, glancing between Dean’s hip and his face, his smirk practically radiating. “That don’t mean anything,” Dean stammered, lowering his arms enough to cover the birthmark.

“I wasn’t paying attention to that,” Castiel said, unconcerned, seating himself again, now facing the television. “You have your wrist tattooed.”

Oh, _that_. A day later and it still stung, his artist having done her best to cover it for the eighth time, skin still inflamed around the new dye. He still had Aquaphor in the medicine cabinet, at least he hoped. “’M not the only one that does it,” Dean sighed. “What’s even the point when you can’t read the damn thing?”

Castiel quirked a brow. “You can’t read it?”

Dean shook his head. Of course Castiel didn’t know; an Alpha in a family of Alphas and Betas, never once having felt the need to even speak to an Omega, let alone look at one. Dean knew the type; Castiel _smelled_ like the type, earthy and rough, with the faintest hint of musk, no hint of softness in him. Over the years, Dean had encountered worse, men with overinflated egos and older women determined to keep him as a play toy.

But at least Castiel didn’t put him on edge like all the others, something about him soothing; their scents were still tangled between them, leaving Dean euphoric and hazy as he fought the urge to crawl close to Castiel and bury his face in his lap. Not today—not _ever_ , if Dean had his way.

“The name’s written in whatever language the Alpha speaks,” Dean told Castiel, covering his wrist with his palm.

“What does it look like?” Castiel extended his hand, an offering.

Dean only tucked his wrist closer and turned, effectively closing himself off. No longer did Castiel’s pull draw him in, their mingled scents retreating, the void between them sharp, cold. “Don’t know. Buncha weird lines, that’s all I know.” Before Castiel could comment again, Dean threw the covers off his legs and took Valencia’s abandoned sweater from the sheets, balling it in his fist. “’M gonna make breakfast, since my _cat’s_ decided I needed to wake up on a Sunday.” He stopped short of the door, looking over his shoulder. “You interested?”

He watched Castiel nod, slow. “I’d appreciate that.”

-+-

 Sunlight greeted Castiel through the open garage door Monday morning, blinding despite having seen it through the open windows just minutes before. Somehow, it always shone brighter outdoors, especially after days of solid rain, his eyes unused to the glaring rays. Dean shared his sympathies, donning sunglasses before he even walked out of the side door into the garage.

Once in the doorway, briefcase in hand, Castiel watched Dean for a while, Dean busy looking at the vehicle under the tarp on the far side of the room, something akin to nostalgia crossing his face, soon shifting back to pensive; angered, even. Even when Castiel asked over the weekend, whether Dean was gathering supplies for the garden or otherwise, Dean never answered, solely kept to himself just what he was hiding under that sheet, and why he either cared so little or much about it. But now, standing there and observing him, Castiel couldn’t help but feel the overwhelming sense of despair that filled Dean, solely from a car, a car Castiel could barely see the tires of.

Dean set the tarp down with a huff and walked to the Mini, popping the trunk. “Should be a slow day,” Dean stated, placing his case inside; Castiel followed suit and stood back, allowing Dean to slam the door closed. “Signed on just in time, we just finished the second quarter for this year.”

Castiel nodded, barely fighting off a yawn. Dean woke him up around five, too early for Castiel to even consider being conscious and active, especially during the week. But Dean kept him on his toes, snapped him awake with imported coffee while fending off Valencia’s attempts to steal food from their plates. This was their schedule now, complete with them waking up in their shared bed and finding a way to work both around and with each other throughout the day, both at home and presumably in Dean’s office.

At least Dean made it easy for him, let him pick his own bedroom even though he never ended up using it. Sleeping with Dean was the most contact Castiel had made with anybody in months, and especially for an extended period of time. Nice was an understatement; Dean smelled _divine_ , even from down the hall that first evening, soft and airy, content washing off him in waves in his sleep. Castiel didn't mean to crawl into bed with him, but Dean never pushed him away, only pulled him closer until they were pressed flush, until their scents coiled, intertwined.

It meant something—Castiel didn’t want to think of the implications, especially not now.

For the most part, the drive to the office was pleasant, accompanied by the drone of NPR on the Mini’s radio and the rumble of rush hour engines on the side streets of downtown Atlanta. Slow going, but instead of tensing, he watched Dean lean into his seat and hum along to the jingle pumping in through the speakers, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

Castiel took it away with just one sentence. “You seem fond of the other car in the garage.”

Dean choked, cleared his throat. “It’s—my old man’s,” Dean said, caught off guard. Taking both hands off the wheel at a stoplight, Dean ran both hands through his hair, slicking it to the side. “He… left it to me after he died. Used to do short track back in the day, won a few championships before her engine quit two years ago.” He shrugged, tapping his foot. “Haven’t figured out what to do with her yet.”

“I take it you wouldn’t want to sell her,” Castiel commented, looking over to Dean, Dean’s face pinched in a frown. “What is she?”

“Impala. Learned how to drive in her when he wasn’t runnin’ her down dirt roads.” Dean urged the Mini forward once the light turned green, moving at a crawl across the intersection. Something wistful crossed his eyes, his smile returning briefly. “Shoulda seen her, man. She’d blow ‘em all away, kick up so much dust even nobody could see. Then dad just… quit upkeep. Started drinking during the divorce. Liquor killed him before mom could.”

Castiel swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Dean brushed it off. “John wasn’t… Half the time, he’d be somewhere else in the state or off at some track meet halfway across the country. Think it was all that pent up Alpha rage in him, couldn’t take it out on us at home, so he’d drive off for weeks, sometimes months. Then he’d come back ’n remember I wasn’t… I’m not like my brother, or mom. I’m…”

“An Omega,” Castiel finished.

“That,” Dean nodded. “Used to get on my ass about it, too. Thought I was gonna be some… slave to my instincts, or whatever. And really, who’s like that anymore? We’re not homebodies or… whatever porn thinks we are. But that’s how my folks grew up, ’n dad thought I was gonna be one of them.

“He was… I’d never seen someone so ashamed over their kid before.” At the next stoplight, Dean stopped to palm his eyes, a faint tremor visible in his hand; Castiel pulled it away and balled Dean’s fingers into a fist, covered it with his palm. “Always had me wear somethin’ over my wrist, or wouldn’t tell people I was his kid. Mom’d tear him a new one about it, but that didn’t stop him.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Castiel said, quiet, and clutched Dean’s hand tighter, at least until the light turned green. “Omega or not, you were still his son.”

Dean nodded, let out a breath through his nose. “Would you believe I actually wanted to play golf professionally? I actually had recruiters try to scout me in high school. But dad made sure they knew that I was an Omega from day one, ’n I think he turned ‘em off of the idea.” Something low sounded in Castiel’s throat, reminiscent of a growl; whether Dean heard or not, Dean never let on. “Decided to go into business after graduation. Probably a waste of potential, but I got a house, and a cat, and this.” He pat the steering wheel, running his hand down the leather, barely even worn. “Can’t be all bad, right?”

Depended on what Dean meant by _bad_. A life doing what he loved versus a desk job in a mattress company? Castiel wouldn’t have chosen the latter, even if he wasn't an Alpha. But that wasn’t his call; Dean lived with the decision every day, had to deal with the societal pressure put on Omegas decades later, and the constant legislative battle regarding whether they could be trusted in the workplace, and even on sports teams, all because of their heats and _urges_. All Castiel had to worry about was if he earned the right degree.

It wasn’t fair—and the pressure Dean’s father had put on him only made it worse.

“Given the chance, would you change your mind?” Castiel asked, head tilted in Dean’s direction. Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, interested. “If someone came to you today and asked you to play in the US Open, would you?”

“In a heartbeat,” Dean affirmed, almost grinning. “I don’t plan on being here the rest of my life. But right now… This is stable. I get paid every two weeks, I got a roof over my head and a couple grand in a savings account. Figure, if I get any free time, I’ll try, but…” He sighed, looked in the rearview mirror. “Who’s to say I’m any good anymore?”

Without a beat, Castiel reached over to pat his shoulder, gripping him through the fabric of his suit jacket. “You won’t find out until you try,” he suggested.

Eventually, Dean nodded, hiding a smirk. “One day,” he said. “One day.”

-+-

As it turned out, Castiel wasn’t exactly the hardest person to work with, at least to Dean. Sure, he was scatterbrained in the mornings without his second cup of coffee, but he followed everything Dean said, whether it was to shadow him during a board meeting or photocopy a full week’s worth of invoices from retailers looking to order stock for showroom floors. Not the worst company to be with, either; Castiel wasn’t the most social in the office, but as the days went by, Dean watched Castiel grow to know most of the floor by name, including Charlie in HR.

“Must be doing something right,” Dean mentioned that Thursday after Castiel returned from the break room with a tray of mini cupcakes, all of which Dean would deny craving later. “Been here four days and they’re already giving you food.”

“I think they find me attractive,” Castiel shrugged and peeled the wrapper off one of the cupcakes, popping it into his mouth. “Or they think I need to eat more.”

Dean snorted; probably the former, he assumed. A hard worker and easy on the eyes, and a certifiable sexual harassment claim in the making—but that didn’t stop Dean from watching him a little too long or holding him closer that necessary at night, content to let Castiel scent him for as long as he wanted, as long as he stayed. They would talk about it at some point, what everything meant, but as long as it didn’t affect their professional relationship, he could keep it in the back of his mind.

Friday came with an entirely different task that Dean had been setting aside for months, at least until the workload settled down and he could take a second to breathe. “Not going in today,” Dean told Castiel in the foyer, Castiel halfway to picking up his briefcase. Before Castiel could ask, Dean finished, “Every year, Zachariah sends one of the managers to Site to go be a test dummy for a day.”

Castiel nodded, slow. “He… wants you to test mattresses?”

“We’ll still be working,” Dean said, failing to hide his joy; Castiel certainly picked up on it enough, his demeanor, his _scent_ , smoothing at the edges, shoulders slumping in subtle relief. “But there’s a few new models they want our opinions on, if you’re up to laying around on beds all day.”

“I’d prefer it, actually,” Castiel chuckled. “I’ve been looking forward to sleeping too much lately.”

Castiel’s laughter shouldn’t have warmed him the way it did, something about it soothing, steadying him to his very soul. For the first time in a week, after indulging in Castiel’s touch every night, after having conversations that didn’t involve emails or board meetings or PowerPoints, Dean genuinely felt… _happy_. With himself, with his life, with everything he touched, at least for now. At some point, it would catch up with him, remind him that nothing he had could last.

But he could damn well try to keep it.

SleepTite’s storehouse sat halfway between Five Points and the upper Perimeter on a nondescript lane, surrounded by other smaller office buildings and storefronts, few of which carried a name aside from a building number. Dean missed it the first few times he traveled there, the brick warehouse blending into the rows of others just like it, its number stuck on an odd place on the facade, out of sight to passersby. Aside from the peculiarly laid parking lot, Dean would have missed it this time too, if not for Castiel pointing out the turn.

Dean blinked once they pulled into a parking space, facing Castiel, Castiel too pleased with himself. “How’d you know where it was?”

Castiel just thumbed behind him to the four numbers written on the mailbox at the front of the street, apparently a new addition since the last time Dean visited. “Don’t get too smug,” Dean chuckled, patted Castiel’s thigh before he could stop himself. _Don’t get handsy, Smith_. Silently, he pulled away, rubbed his hands on his slacks. “’S not cute on you.”

If anything, it only furthered Castiel’s smirk, his eyes practically beaming once they stepped out of the car and into the parking lot. “Hannah and Charlie thought it was,” Castiel mused.

Dean nearly choked on his tongue. “You’ve been talking to them?”

“In the break room,” Castiel said. “Apparently there’s a betting pool within the IT department as to whether Aaron will ask you out.”

“Oh _God_.” Dean threw his head back, the sun promptly blinding him. “I didn’t think that was real.”

“They gave him a week at first, but then myself and a few other interns came. We seem to have rattled the pool a bit.”

Rattled was right. Dean mulled that over as they crossed the parking lot and ascended the few stairs to the warehouse; beyond the door, rows upon rows of mattresses sat laid out on bed frames across the floor, along with several lined up on the back wall and a few in the rafters. If those had ever been moved, Dean had no clue, didn’t care to find out, either. Tracy greeted them at the reception desk and handed both Dean and Castiel a pencil and a clipboard featuring at least twenty papers, all lined with questions about quality, back support, firm versus soft, and the list went on.

“Together or split up?” Dean asked, waving his clipboard in the odd direction of the mattresses.

Castiel’s hair blew with the gust from the ceiling fans overhead, a few loose strands falling into his eyes; Dean itched to brush them away, his hand twitching at his side. “Together,” Castiel suggested. “We could give varying opinions that way.”

Dean nodded and swallowed around the lump in his throat, praying that Tracy nor any of the store handlers there noticed the blush painting his cheeks. If anyone asked, he could blame it on the heat, already stifling with the lack of air conditioning. Dean left his shoes in a chair by Tracy’s desk, along with his suit jacket, leaving him in his suspenders and slacks and two different socks. Castiel didn’t mock him for it, just followed suit and shed his raincoat and jacket as well, laid them atop Dean’s own.

For a while, they perused the floor with their papers, spending five minutes on each mattress staring at the rafters and the light shining through the upper windows. Castiel, as it turned out, preferred the firmer mattresses of the collection, claiming his back held up better, rather than feeling like he was sinking into the coils. “Can’t stand these,” Dean rumbled, shuffling to attempt to make himself comfortable, eventually rolling onto his side to face Castiel. “Makes my back hurt just lying here.”

“My back aches from time to time,” Castiel said. “I haven’t had a mattress of my own in a while, though.”

“Seem to like mine just fine.” Dean jabbed his ribs; Castiel squirmed away with a huff, batting at Dean’s hand. “I got memory foam. ’S like sleepin’ on a cloud.”

“I’m still not used to it.” Castiel rolled off first with Dean at his tail, the two of them promptly falling on the next mattress, much softer than the previous one. Dean rolled onto his stomach while Castiel wiggled, attempting to settle himself and never quite succeeding. “How can you stand this?”

Dean buried his face in one of the pillows, laughed. “It’s soft,” he offered and reached out to Castiel, finding his hip; Castiel didn’t shove him away, and faintly, Dean could have sworn he felt Castiel’s hand touch his own. “Just… It helps, y’know? You never really notice how much difference it makes until you’re…”

“Nesting?” Castiel supplied. Dean nodded and turned onto his side once again, watching the way Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed, his chest rising and falling with each breath, rhythmic and entrancing. “I can see the appeal. Do you nest?”

Sputtering, Dean covered his eyes. “God, if we weren’t sharing a bed, I might consider that too personal.”

Castiel laughed, the strength of it shaking the bed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s… I just like soft things.” Dean lowered his arm, let his fingers graze Castiel’s neck, just out of sight of anyone possibly looking. Castiel’s pulse fluttered against his fingertips, growing faster the longer Dean lingered there. “Never really got to… _indulge_ when I was younger. First thing I did during my first heat, pulled my mattress on the floor and threw blankets on top of it.”

Low, Castiel hummed, the sound vibrating against Dean’s fingers. “Your next heat… Do you want me to leave?”

“…No,” Dean managed.

Castiel blinked himself alert, tilting his head to look at Dean with wild eyes, his pulse even more erratic. Dean hadn’t given it much thought at first, the idea of having someone else in the house when his heat resurfaced, always stronger than he liked. Really, he didn’t need anyone, didn’t need to be coddled or catered to, didn’t need sex to keep him sane. But for years, in the midst of hormones and the blatant need for touch, Dean always craved for someone to share it with him, to hold him until the worst of it passed, until the jitters and anxiety dissipated and left him weak, unwilling to leave his bed.

And maybe, just maybe, Castiel was that person. “I…” Castiel started, turning fully to face Dean, their fingers inches apart. “Doesn’t this cross a boundary? You’re my employer, and I’m…”

“You’re _you_.” Dean closed the distance and took Castiel’s hand, lacing their fingers together. His heart hammered the longer they touched, Dean unwilling to look him in the eye, his face burning bright under the flood lamps. “Look, if you don’t wanna, we can… We don’t have to do anything. But I’m not gonna turn you out when I take my week off. You’re not obligated, I just…”

“Dean.” Castiel stopped him with a finger to his chin, tilting him to meet his eye. “If you want me to share your heat, I will. You… wouldn’t be the first. But I know how much it means, how the desire can be too much.”

“You… Who was it?” Dean blinked, heart stuttering; sure, he had heard of Alphas taking in unmated Omegas during their heats, but never in a platonic sense, and _never_ out of the goodness of their heart. But Castiel didn’t seem like the type, didn’t come across to Dean as someone who would prowl Craigslist ads for O seeking A, and vice versa.

Castiel held Dean tighter, thumbing over the top of his hand. “…My last year as an undergrad, a freshman came to me. I never learned his name, but it was his first heat away from home. No one had ever told him what to do, and he was just… I wanted to protect him.” Castiel stopped, eyes drooping. “I let him stay in my dorm room while I went to class. He just wanted someone there to tell him that he wasn’t losing his mind.”

All Dean could do was nod, the story too familiar, too close to home. “It’s fuckin’ terrifying,” he admitted, resuming staring at the inside of his eyelids; even then, he knew Castiel was watching him, waiting for him to continue. “To just… lose control like that. Can’t even… Everything down here,” Dean laid a hand over his belt buckle, “don’t work. And twice a year, it acts like it wants to, and it just keeps gettin’ worse.”

“You’re getting older,” Castiel said, his tone protective, a low rumble that beckoned Dean closer; Dean held back just barely, the thought of eyes on them fluttering in the back of his mind. They needed to move, or at least try to make it to another bed; still, Castiel’s presence held him in place, soothed the ache in his chest. “You’re at your peak.”

“Tell that to my damn parts,” Dean groused. “The suppressants help, but I wish it’d just… stop.”

A steady heat rose up his arm at Castiel’s touch, the hand previously holding his now skirting over the fabric of Dean’s shirt, stopping at his elbow. Dean practically purred, inwardly ashamed of his reaction; Castiel never admonished him though, just thumbed the bend of his elbow and offered a smile, too gentle to be real. “Your mate… What will you do when you find them?”

Dean snorted, curling in on himself. _Mates_ —the idea still haunted him, decades after his mark presented, an unreadable script he could never decipher even with the resources his university’s library had provided years ago. The one person on earth he was physically bound to, but no longer contractually obligated to commit with. He could date anyone he wanted, marry the love of his life, and still ignore the fact that someone else’s name was branded on his arm for eternity. And his Alpha or Beta had no say over what he did with his life, not anymore.

“Never had that fantasy, honestly,” Dean said with an exhale. “…Never dreamed of a white wedding or meeting this _Alpha_ who’s supposed to change my life. Sure, it’d probably help with heats, but…”

“…You’re scared,” Castiel whispered. Dean nodded and rolled over onto his back, away from Castiel’s hand. “Having an Alpha won’t change who you are or how you’re seen, Dean.”

“Just… wish it wasn’t like this.” Above, Dean watched the ceiling ran rotate, speeding up as the room heated. “Always wanted to know what it felt like to be an Alpha, y’know? Didn’t have to feel this… weak.”

At that, Castiel growled—actually _growled_ —and sat up with enough force to jostle Dean towards the center of the mattress, one of Castiel’s hands fisted into the bedding beside his face. “You’re not weak,” he stated, close enough for Dean to feel his breath, feel the heat rolling off of him. His instincts screamed at him to roll over, to take it; Dean pushed them all down and listened. “If you were, you wouldn’t have what you do. You wouldn’t be where you are today if you didn’t fight for your right to exist. You’re stronger than you know… Than your father ever thought you’d be.”

Swallowing, Dean reached up to take Castiel’s wrist, holding on tight. “…You don’t know me, Cas. You barely…”

“I know enough. And I’d like to know more…” With that, Castiel sat up, ran his hands through his hair; Dean watched sweat bead in his hairline, trickle behind his ear before disappearing below his collar. “…If you’ll let me.”

“…Sure.” Dean watched Castiel glance over his shoulder, flustered, eyebrows lifted. If the situation were any different, Dean would have laughed. “Feels like you’re askin’ me out, though.”

“I may be,” Castiel shrugged, mirthful. “I won’t tell Zachariah if you won’t.”

Dean smirked and, sitting up, shoved Castiel’s shoulder, almost hard enough to jostle him off the bed. “Think you got yourself a deal.”

-+-

_Early_ was Dean’s only thought that morning, a fever slowly burning through his body. A thin sheen of sweat covered the back of his neck, growing damper the longer he laid in bed with Castiel curled up close, Castiel doing nothing to quell the jitters threatening to rattle Dean apart. He still had a week, another few days to get his affairs in order. Not _now_. He had a meeting with Zachariah this afternoon, as well as the board the following day; after that, Castiel was supposed to act as his replacement for the week.

Apparently not anymore. If Dean could make it through the _day_ , it would be a certifiable miracle on his part.

Thankfully, Castiel didn’t take much notice to his disheveled state through the morning, or at least never mentioned anything. Three full weeks around each other gave them both enough time to form a comfortable schedule, one that involved Dean leaving their room before Castiel ever decided to wake up, and Castiel cooking before they left for work. Today’s routine consisted of Dean rummaging through his medicine cabinet for anything that could take the edge off: blockers, extra suppressants, Ibuprofen, _something_ that could get rid of the oncoming headache and the weakness in his knees.

Nothing worked, especially now. No number of pills nor reassurances to himself in the mirror could erase the fact that his heat was due in a few hours, most likely the minute he stepped into the office. His meeting with Zachariah was at nine—he could _probably_ last until then, at the earliest. After that, Castiel would take him home and keep him company, and feed Valencia in the meantime. At least, Dean hoped. He didn’t deserve Castiel, not with everything Castiel did for him, from cooking to taking his calls, to letting him sleep in past his alarm on weekends—sharing a heat fell under the umbrella of dutiful boyfriend, too, apparently.

Now, if only his wrist would stop _itching_.

“You smell different,” Castiel remarked about a mile from the Bank of America tower, nose raised to the air, eyes dilated. Probably a reaction to heat stink, or whatever Dean had been radiating since they woke up.

“…‘M gonna need you to get me home after Zach blabs about his golf outing,” Dean said through gritted teeth, sweaty hands white knuckling the steering wheel.

Castiel shot him a look, something about it setting Dean on edge, his skin searing under his clothing. “Dean—”

“Don’t ask,” Dean said, low, mostly to himself. “Just— _Please_. Let me get through this morning without havin’ to explain myself.”

For now, Castiel let him off with no more than a hand to his thigh, slowly kneading him through his slacks for the remainder of the ride. Dean clung to the contact, let Castiel’s warmth pulse through him in a way that shouldn’t have calmed him, shouldn’t have left him feeling protected, _cherished_. Castiel was too good for him, too adept to feeling whatever Dean was going through, at noticing his habits and adjusting to Dean’s needs, never pushing Dean harder than necessary.

Now, Dean’s instincts screamed for an entirely different reason, one that involved Castiel pushing him against a wall or his desk, whatever surface he could find. Maybe it was the first day of hormones clouding his brain, but Castiel smelled amazing, rich and deep, a scent he could bury himself in, sink his teeth into if Castiel would let him.

_Hold it together_ , Dean berated himself. _You’re not gonna get fired for indecent exposure_.

Initially, moving never proved an issue earlier in the day; then, his heat hadn’t been completely overwhelming his every sense. Though, the further they progressed from the parking deck and into the building, the more Dean wanted to crawl, or let Castiel carry him, anything to get him off his feet. But Dean could do it—he could fake stability for the sake of his job, keep his head on straight and face his boss. He had done it before, he could do it again; at least now, he had Castiel with him.

Dean leaned against the elevator wall as soon as the doors closed, leaving him and Castiel alone, accompanied by cheesy piano music ringing in through the overhead intercom. Castiel kept his distance, but even then, Dean sensed his tension, Castiel’s need to comfort him, to do _anything_ other than stand there and watch. “You should’ve called in,” Castiel said, hoarse, loosening his tie just enough for Dean to drink in the exposed skin of his neck, rich and tan and sweat-damp.

“Can’t,” Dean panted, fisting the handrail at his back. “Gonna—someone’s gonna have to take my place tomorrow—”

“I’ll go.” Across the room, Castiel nodded and raked a hand through his hair, now even more in disarray. Dean swore he saw the room spin. “Are you presenting anything?”

“Just sitting in.” Thank _God_ , too; if Dean had to put up with a presentation in his state, he might have had to quit on the spot. “Think you can deal with the big wigs for a day?”

“Anything for you,” Castiel confided, and finally crossed the room to cup Dean’s neck.

A shameful moan poured from Dean’s lips, embarrassment burning through him even brighter than the fever. All Castiel would have to do was hit the emergency stop button and unzip Dean’s slacks, push him against the flimsy wall; Castiel took the safer route, though, and helped Dean settle himself, let Dean inhale his scent until the shivers stopped and Dean could think clearly. They would talk about it later; for now, Castiel led him across the office with one finger tucked in Dean’s belt loop, out of sight to anyone working in the cubes that early.

The following three hours crawled, Dean occupying himself by alternating between answering emails and allowing Castiel to touch his neck for minutes at a time, until his heart rate slowed to healthier levels, no longer in danger of bursting in his chest. “Too good for me,” Dean slurred, still clear enough for Castiel to pick up. “Seriously, don’t know what I’d…”

“You’d do fine, either way,” Castiel said close to his ear, breath scalding against Dean’s neck; Dean let out a low whine, stomping on the floor to keep himself grounded. “You have five minutes before Mr. Adler comes in.”

Right— _Zachariah_. Zachariah was supposed to talk to him about something—sales figures, a promotion, some farfetched story about a retreat in Aspen, Dean didn’t know. Didn’t care even when Zachariah ranted about it ten minutes later, going into great detail about resort hotels and the waitresses that were ten levels out of his league. All the while, Castiel stood in the corner with his arms crossed, hackles raised while Dean nodded along, interjecting when necessary and answering whatever Zachariah asked him in conclusion. Half of it was a blur, and Dean only survived by clinging to Castiel’s scent, always there when he needed it.

Zachariah left without telling Dean anything of importance, his shadow disappearing behind the blinds in Dean’s office and around the corner, presumably to waste someone else’s time. The second the door clicked, Castiel joined him at his side, allowing Dean to cling to his hands, press his lips to Castiel’s thick fingers. Three weeks together, and they still hadn’t kissed, never even made a move to until now. Dean ached for it, down to his soul, but Castiel never closed the gap, simply placed a finger to Dean’s lips when he stood, a smirk worrying Castiel’s mouth. “Are you sure this is you talking?” Castiel asked, sneaking a kiss to the spot below Dean’s ear, earning a moan in return. “Or is this your heat?”

“Both,” Dean hissed. “Go tell—” _Charlie_ , that was her name, wasn’t it? “Go tell Charlie I’m taking a week off. I gotta—Gotta get outta here.”

“Give me three minutes,” Castiel said, and left in four strides, the door clicking shut behind him.

Meanwhile, Dean smacked his hand down on his desk, his wrist searing under his shirt cuff. His stomach turned with the implication, at the pure idea that… “Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean huffed and yanked his cufflink off, pulling his sleeve up to reveal those familiar white characters standing out in the middle of his tattoo, inflamed and bloody around the edges. It hadn’t hurt that bad before, hadn’t ached to the point of outright agony. Probably something to do with his heat, or just unfortunate circumstance. _Just finished healing, too_.

Rather than ruminating on it, Dean just sunk to his knees behind his desk and laid his head on the carpet, hands over his head; anything to keep from clawing his wrist open, drawing even more blood. Castiel found him there a minute later, Dean delirious and panting, the back of his neck tinged red. “What’d you do?” Castiel asked, panicked, pulling Dean’s hands away.

“Don’t—” Dean begged, too late; Castiel’s attempt to question his further halted upon inspection of Dean’s wrist, his thumb running over the puffy lines, smearing the blood that continued to seep through, slower now, almost clotted. “Don’t, that’s—”

“My name.” Dean’s blood ran cold. Looking up, he spotted the horror in Castiel’s eyes, part tinged in wonder and disbelief. “Your—It’s Enochian. It’s my name.”

“Your—” Dean sat up as straight as he could, heart still racing from his heat and now Castiel’s confirmation; faintly, he could feel Castiel’s hands shake, fingers trembling in his palm. “Your _name_ — _How_ —”

“Long story. Parents took a dart to a book of archaic baby names.” Castiel shook his head, clutched Dean tighter; fire burned in his eyes, pupils dilated enough to almost obscure the blue of his irises. “…I’m your soulmate, Dean.”

He couldn’t stop himself; almost on instinct, Dean fell forward into Castiel’s arms, his upper body giving up the fight. At least he made it to the floor before he passed out. “Can’t be,” Dean mouthed against Castiel’s collar, his scent flooding Dean’s senses, deep into his bones. “ _Can’t_ —’S that why we keep—”

“It’s why we’re comfortable around each other,” Castiel hushed him. He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, pausing at his nape. “It’s why I was drawn to you that night.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean hissed, a long, drawn out noise.

After all that time, his mate had been right there, by his side every day, in his bed every night, and Dean never suspected. For weeks, he figured it was a _coincidence_ that they melded together so perfectly, that they were so grossly in sync, just because they were compatible on a base human level. Not something deeper, something that bound their very lives together from the start.

Perhaps that was why the mark had bled through so soon, solely from Castiel’s constant presence; sleepless nights had turned to restful mornings, Dean’s own self-hate had been drawn out and snuffed, and all just from Castiel _being_ there, touching him when he needed it. And for Castiel in return, when Castiel returned from his classes with his shoulders sagging, unwilling to speak for minutes, hours at a time. The aftermath of abandonment, the realization that he couldn’t live off of Dean’s hospitality forever; whatever it was, Dean always reassured him, always kept him close to the surface.

_Two lonely people_ , Dean mused, drawing his arms around Castiel’s waist to pull him closer, breathe Castiel in deep. “You have to tell me,” Castiel murmured close to his ear, pulling away far enough to cup Dean’s face in his hands, no doubt burning with fever. “You have to tell me now, Dean. If you don’t want this—If you don’t want me anymore, I’ll go. I won’t bother you again, but… I have to know.”

“Want you,” Dean said, punctuating every syllable. “I’m—I’m not gonna turn you out, Cas. Just ‘cause you’re… my _mate_ , ain’t mean you’re outta my life.”

“Good,” Castiel sighed, elation in his voice. “Good, I didn’t… I don’t want to leave you.”

In his arms, Dean felt Castiel slump, relief flooding him; Dean only held him tighter and pressed a biting kiss to Castiel’s exposed throat, nipping his pulse point hard enough to draw out a ragged moan. The sound only stirred Dean on further, his hands creeping around Castiel’s waist to palm at the front of his slacks, the beginnings of a bulge pressing against his palm.

“Not here,” Castiel asserted, just harsh enough to catch Dean’s attention. Never would Dean admit to the whine he made, shockingly loud in his empty office. “You asked me to take you home.”

“God, _please_.” Somewhere along the line, simple requests turned to begging, his own shame ratcheting his heat higher; Castiel wasn’t doing him any favors either, keeping contact with Dean as he forced him to stand on shaky legs, Dean’s knees nearly giving out. He should have stayed home, should have told Zachariah to rant to someone else for an hour while Dean buried himself in bed, preferably with Castiel at his back. “Please, get me—”

“Where’s the fastest exit?”

By some miracle, Dean managed to string together just where the service elevator was: out of the way of the cubicles directly outside of Dean’s office and down a corridor in the middle of their floor. Castiel held him up on the ride down, Dean half clinging to Castiel’s hip, his other hand fitted around the handrail. Sweat beaded at his nape, almost as uncomfortable as the slick beginning to wet his briefs, his body’s less than helpful reaction to Castiel even being _near_ him.

But at least now, he understood. Castiel, the stranger that walked into his life on a rainy Friday, was his _mate_ , had always _been_ his mate, and would never dare leave him. And Dean didn’t want him to go, either, wanted Castiel to stay with him for as long as he could, no matter the circumstance. “Take me home,” Dean panted into Castiel’s hair; the rush of the elevator doors opening failed to obscure his following words, “Please, just… take me home.”

-+-

Dean couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

He never imagined their first kiss would be in the his garage, nor up against the empty work bench by the foyer door. Castiel was on him the second the garage closed, hands in Dean’s hair and lips against his own, no finesse in their kiss. Animalistic sounded appropriate, nearing primal in the way Dean tugged at Castiel’s clothes, all a trying effort to get his shirt unbuttoned under all those layers.

Castiel unhooked Dean’s suspenders first, leaving them in the hall next to their abandoned shoes and Castiel’s coat. Dean’s jacket and shirt followed next, his pants lost somewhere along the way, probably in the stairwell for all he cared. For all his composure on the short drive over, Castiel’s self-control behind closed doors was apparently nonexistent, his movements fueled by lust and unadulterated desire, all stemming from whatever pheromones Dean exuded, and the look in his eyes, a plea.

_Fuck me._

“’S never been like this,” Dean groaned, breathless when Castiel shoved him on the bed to successfully yank his briefs down, revealing Dean’s sweat-soaked skin and even slicker hole, twitching under Castiel’s scrutiny. Castiel hadn’t even bothered to undress himself either, his shirt torn open, tie hanging off to one side, slacks tented at the front—Dean wanted to drink him, get his hands on Castiel and pull him down by that stupid tie he demanded he wear every day, just as blue as his eyes.

He never got the chance; Castiel was on him before he could pull his to-do list together and flipped him over; almost on instinct, Dean lifted his hips, flush deepening when Castiel joined him on the bed— _still clothed_ , Dean gasped—and grabbed him by the hips, hauling him closer. Castiel thumbed at the slick dripping from his ass, gathering up enough to smear down his cleft, teasing his rim in incremental movements; if his knees weren’t holding him up, Dean would have collapsed. “ _C’mon_ , Cas—”

“You’re not ready,” Castiel told him, stern, and Dean groaned into the bed, fisting the sheets above his head. Like _hell_ he wasn’t—he’d been ready since they first got to the office.

“C’mon,” Dean growled, pushed himself back into Castiel’s touch; Castiel soothed him with a hand to his thigh, stroking him slow enough for Dean to latch onto, to actually _feel_ something other than the fever and the overwhelming need. “Cas…”

Castiel shushed him, continued to pet up his thigh to his hip, eventually running up the length of his spine to his nape. “Trust me,” Castiel hushed into his ear; the brush of Castiel’s clothing, soft and feather light, drew a shudder from Dean, ripping down to his toes. “You’re not ready.”

Dean huffed. “Dick.” With that, he let himself fall flat, prostrate under Castiel’s body. If Castiel planned to take his time, then he would have to _work_ for it. “I’ve been with Alphas before—”

Ignoring Dean’s words, Castiel laughed and left him, shuffling far enough away to give Dean pause. At least, until he said, “I’m not planning to make you wait,” and proceeded to palm Dean’s ass with both hands, spreading Dean open, warming him up; Dean curled his toes, Castiel’s breath ghosting his rim, lips pressing a brief kiss there. “But I won’t be like the others. I intend to keep you for myself.”

Whatever Dean had to retort got lost in his subsequent moan, Castiel’s tongue tracing a path from the tip of his cock, swollen and red in Castiel’s hand, all the way to his rim, flicking in quick bursts where he was slick and twitching. No one—no Beta and _certainly_ no Alpha—had ever rimmed him before, never attempted to do anything other than pin him to the bed and fuck him into the mattress, normally leaving while he slept or the morning after.

But Castiel held him, caressed him as he worked his jaw into him, slipped his tongue in deep, all the while stroking his cock, the duality of it leaving Dean’s head spinning, unaware of where to go, what to feel. “ _Cas_ ,” Dean whined, incessant whimpers pouring from his mouth, only heightening when Castiel slipped a finger inside, his rim clenching around the intrusion, greedy. “Cas, ‘m close…”

“You can come,” was Castiel’s only statement before he delved in again, a second finger pushing inside with little resistance, nudging insistently at his prostate, sparks skittering up his spine. Overcome, Dean attempted to curl in on himself, only to have Castiel hold him in place, keep him still. Dean came like that, clenching desperately around Castiel’s fingers and pulsing thick into his hand, all while Castiel never let up, just continued to lick up his slick and fuck his fingers in deeper, almost torturous.

Dean couldn’t breathe—couldn’t do much of anything aside ride his high and Castiel’s fingers, his body lost in desire, craving release, touch, _anything_. “ _Cas_ ,” Dean said, broken, bordering a sob. “Cas, c’mon…”

Castiel never slowed, solely continued to spear Dean open with his tongue, spreading him wider with every passing minute. Idly, Dean glanced underneath himself and watched the way Castiel continued to stroke his cock with his own come, precome spilling between his fingers and dirtying them further; it shouldn’t have been that hot, just from Castiel eating him out with fervor, drinking him down with moans of his own. From the angle, he could tell Castiel was hard too, practically bursting from his slacks; any other color, and Dean would have been able to see the wet spot, probably soaking through the fabric.

Just the thought sent another rush of slick from him, and Castiel swallowed it down without hesitance, his groan reverberating through Dean’s ass. He could come like this again, Castiel’s hand already coaxing him back to hardness in rapid time, his own wetness spurring him on. “Gonna fuckin’ come,” Dean panted, pushed himself back; Castiel just held on, wrapped his free arm around Dean’s waist and tugged, _hard_.

The second orgasm, just as sharp as the first, left him winded, wheezing in the aftermath and gripping the bedding until Castiel— _finally_ —slowed. Dean mourned the loss of touch when Castiel pulled his fingers free, clenching around the memory. “Don’t,” Dean wheezed, thighs trembling with the last of the aftershocks, “Don’t you fuckin’ stop now…”

“I’m not,” Castiel whispered, softer than Dean had ever heard before, almost melodic.

Gently, a hand caressed his neck, smoothed up through his sweat soaked hair, tugging enough for Dean to catch on and lift himself up onto his elbows; if only his legs would cooperate, taking that moment to finally give out and ultimately causing Dean to fall into his own wet spot. “ _Gross_ ,” Dean complained; Castiel silenced him with a kiss, the taste of his own slick on his tongue heady, _real_.

“Beautiful,” Castiel praised when they broke apart, only to press a smaller kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips, a smile hidden there. “Do you still want me?”

Dean nodded, the first real coherent thought he had had all day. He could think— _breathe_ , now that Castiel had worked the immediate edge off. “Wanna… Wanna see you,” Dean admitted, cheeks no doubt several shades of red; if Castiel noticed, he didn’t show it, just kissed Dean until he rolled onto his back, reveling in the feel of Castiel boxing him in, both hands gripping his wrists above his head. “You’re still dressed,” Dean said, giddy, when Castiel pulled away to lap at his neck, gathering up the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

Slowly, they took their time, sparing intermittent kisses while Dean worked the rest of Castiel’s clothing off, suit jacket and shirt tossed aside, along with the pale white undershirt Castiel insisted on wearing; now, it was more of a hindrance, keeping Dean from running his hands over Castiel’s tanned skin, toned and firm under his fingertips. “Gotta tell me where you work out,” Dean joshed, hands on Castiel’s waistband.

“I’ll take you,” Castiel said into another kiss.

Sitting back, he allowed Dean to strip him of his pants and boxers in one go, tossing them off the bed. Castiel was even more gorgeous up close, cock standing proud between his legs, considerably thicker than his own, if not longer; any other time, and Dean would have spent hours sucking him down, working him over until he knotted his hand and came on his face, down his throat, wherever Castiel wanted to mark him.

He couldn’t wait.

“Ride me,” Castiel said into another kiss, mirth in his grin. “It’ll be more comfortable for you.”

Dean scoffed. “Actin’ like I haven’t done this before.” Still, he heeded Castiel’s word and straddled his hips, Castiel lowering himself to his elbows. “You’re gonna wash sheets when we’re done.”

“Deal,” Castiel chuckled. Tenderly, he stroked Dean’s cheek with his dry hand, thumbing under one eye. “You’re still sure? We don’t…”

“Wanna,” Dean said, sighing through his nose. “Just… Be careful, alright? It’s… been a long time.”

A low rumble resonated from Castiel’s chest. “I won’t hurt you.” Castiel kissed him again, a promise on his lips.

It really had been a while; so long, that Dean had almost forgotten the feel of another Alpha’s cock inside him, the head of Castiel’s dick pushing in inch by inch. If he looked big before, Castiel felt even larger, stretching him to just the barest edge of pain that even his own slick couldn’t fully alleviate. Still, Castiel held him through it, allowing Dean to lower himself down onto his cock until he was fully seated, firmly nestled in his ass. “God, you’re thick,” Dean remarked, offhand, nose buried in Castiel’s neck.

Castiel nipped his earlobe, slid both hands around to Dean’s ass, fingers teasing where they were joined; Dean jerked, the sensitivity almost too much. “You’re taking it so well, though,” Castiel praised. “Feel so tight.”

_Tight_ —Dean would show him tight. Castiel was the first to gasp when Dean finally moved, shifting his hips up in small, minute movements, barely enough to be noticeable; Dean felt it all the same, the blunt head of Castiel’s cock pressing firm against his prostate with every thrust. Castiel really _was_ huge—bigger than any Alpha Dean had ever been with, his knot teasing Dean’s rim every time he shoved down, not quite close to pushing in.

All the while, Castiel watched him in utter reverence, lips slack and red from kisses, pupils absolutely blown. “Beautiful,” Castiel muttered, breathless, and pulled Dean down for another kiss, never once making a move to pull away.

Dean didn’t want him to, either. For the most part, he kept their pace leisurely, riding Castiel’s cock from root to tip, the unending pressure inside lighting Dean up at his core, slick spilling in sympathy. Eventually, Castiel met each thrust and held onto Dean’s hip with one hand, kept him steady when he sped up, the wet sound of sex filling the room along with their scents, joined thick in the air between them. “Like that,” Dean muttered, too enrapt with the combination to think of much else.

“So good,” Castiel praised; his words only spurred Dean on, his thighs trembling with the strain of staying upright. His cock ached between his legs, struggling to harden fully for a third time; Castiel took him in hand in sympathy, the purpled head slipping in and out of his fist in time with his thrusts, dragging Dean close to the edge. “Close— _Dean_ —”

Dean swallowed, buried his nose in Castiel’s neck. “Do it,” he said, rushed; he brushed his toes against Castiel’s thighs, feeling the strain there, just how tense he was from holding off. Faintly, he felt Castiel’s knot tugging at his rim, an almost constant pressure threatening to slip inside and tie them together. “Want you to knot me, _c’mon_ —”

Castiel let out an incoherent moan, the force of it resonating against Dean’s skin, going straight to his cock. Not more than a few seconds after, and Castiel’s knot— _finally_ —caught, fucking deep inside; Dean clenched around it, massaged it while Castiel came, endless, his face pinched in agonized rapture. Beautiful was an understatement—Castiel might as well have been an _Angel_ , even as he continued to fuck Dean within an inch of his life, intent on getting Dean off again. A few strokes from his own hand, and Dean spilled over Castiel’s stomach, his third orgasm painful, a near white-out.

After that was a blur, Dean alternating between dozing off and purring with every individual kiss Castiel pressed to his collar, occasionally pausing to lap at the tender curve of Dean’s neck, tacky with sweat; his heart stuttered with every individual lick, the heat drawing him from the afterglow back into the present, back to the uncomfortable awareness that Castiel’s knot was inside him, tying them together for the immediate future; Dean groaned in realization, covering his eyes with his arm. “Can’t believe we just did that,” he said, almost hysterical.

Castiel laughed along, soft in Dean’s ear, soothing in a way he had grown to adore. “You’re beautiful,” Castiel said and drew him into another kiss, this one softer, no longer lost in endorphins and pheromone haze.

This time, he could actually feel it, the slick slide of Castiel’s tongue against his own, teasing his lips in a slow glide; hands to the back of Castiel’s head, Dean drew him closer, nipped at Castiel’s lower lip and released it with a pop. “Can’t say you’re so bad yourself,” Dean chuckled, thumbed below Castiel’s ears; in return, Castiel closed his eyes, leaned in to suck a mark to Dean’s throat. His heart beat wildly through it, the thought of Castiel actually biting him, completing the mating, terrifying the closer it came to fruition.

Bracing himself wouldn’t work, even if Castiel let him know beforehand—no one ever actually marked him before, not like that. Even in the throes of his heat, Dean never begged for it, never allowed anyone to venture near that spot until now. And Castiel teased him until Dean pushed him away, halfhearted, heart in his throat. He couldn’t—not now, not when this was still too new, too raw. Any other Alpha wouldn’t have backed away, would have mated him, permission or not. But Castiel just backed away, helped to roll them onto his side, dovetailing their legs together; not the most comfortable position in the world, but Castiel made it work, held Dean close to his chest, let Dean breathe him in.

Their scents smelled different now—not the same as when they first shared a bed, but deeper, cleaner. Petrichor and lavender, fresh cotton and sea water. Earthy, _home_. Later— _Later_ , Dean decided, held tight in Castiel’s arms in the aftermath, they would discuss just what it meant, why everything felt so whole, why Castiel felt like his entire world. But for now, he nuzzled the curve of Castiel’s neck and let out a breath, let his eyes slip closed, body lost in the haze of touch and adoration and love.

-+-

Evening greeted Castiel with a headache and a cold bed.

For once, he hadn’t expected it; Dean had seemed so genuine just hours before, nothing but praise and affection falling from his lips, his very touch igniting a want inside Castiel that he hadn’t felt in months, that he hadn’t known he needed so much. Just being touched in such a manner left Castiel feeling complete, down to his very soul. But now, Dean was gone, presumably somewhere else in the house while Castiel pulled himself awake, still naked under the thin sheet covering him, the comforters pushed off somewhere during afternoon.

Outside, a steady rain fell, pinging off the roof and through the leaves of the trees in the courtyard, all visible even with the diminishing sunlight. Probably eight in the evening, maybe eight thirty at the latest; as promising as sleep sounded, Castiel forced himself to sit up, determined to find where Dean had ventured off to. As long as he hadn’t left the house, Castiel could just blame the departure on insomnia, rather than himself.

Did Dean really not want him enough to stay?

Slipping on a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, Castiel made his way from the room towards the stairwell, foregoing a shirt for no other reason than exhaustion. Even walking took strength, his knees protesting with every step down the staircase, no doubt from the strain of resting on his knees, even on the luxury of Dean’s mattress. Once on the bottom landing, Castiel could hear the television rumbling in the other room, faint and indistinct words making their way into his range. _Good_ ; at least Dean was still inside, unless Valencia had learned how to use the remote in the last day.

In the dim light of the living area, Dean sat on the couch with his head in his hands, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and the hickies Castiel had left hours before, mottled and marring his neck from ear to collar. Castiel’s heart tugged at the sight, his hands twitching at his sides with the urge to touch, to calm him, take Dean’s hands in his own. “Dean,” Castiel said, almost as an afterthought.

Dean, jerking upright, glanced over to Castiel, the frown across his lips smoothing, slowly fading into a quiet grin. Castiel’s heart warmed with it, even further when Dean patted the seat next to him. Somehow, it felt like absolution; for what, he didn't know. Didn’t care, for that matter, as long as Dean still wanted him around for another day, week, maybe forever.

“Just… Couldn’t sleep, I guess,” Dean started, running a hand through his hair; giving in, Castiel reached over to pat Dean’s thigh, letting his hand linger and thumbing over his knee. The fever of Dean’s heat burned softer now, temperature just skirting his baseline. The worst of it had passed; with it, Castiel mourned the absence, unaware if Dean still wanted him there, wanted him to continue keeping the fire at bay. “…Thought this was supposed to be easy.”

“…What?” Castiel asked, just loud enough to keep Dean’s attention.

If anything, Dean softened with his voice, slumping over enough to rest his forehead on the curve of Castiel’s shoulder, soon moving to Castiel’s neck. Laying back, Castiel allowed Dean to sprawl over him, their hearts beating in synchronized rhythm, a perfect match. Had they always been that way? “Just…” Dean sighed; Castiel brought his arms around the small of Dean’s back, let them rest there while Dean gathered his thoughts. “…Even if we weren’t mates, I would’ve wanted this, y’know? But even then, I’m kinda… glad it’s you.”

Another sigh; Dean nuzzled closer, eyelashes fluttering against Castiel’s throat. Never in Castiel’s life had he felt something so gentle, so minute, yet so human. That moment alone, he would relive in any lifetime. “Never wanted to really think about it, I guess,” Dean continued, chest inflating with an inhale. “Though it’d be some douchebag who just wanted someone to fuck at night. ‘N I thought you were gonna be like all the others, but… You’re not.”

Castiel hummed, pressed a kiss to Dean’s hair, cold in the air conditioning. “Should I be glad I didn’t live up to your expectations?” he pondered, earning a laugh from Dean, reverberating against his chest.

“Glad you didn't turn out to be an asshat,” Dean retorted and pecked Castiel’s throat.

Castiel purred under the attention, reveled in it while Dean tended to his neck, covering it in strings of kisses and small licks, almost like he was—“I don’t want to leave here,” Castiel sputtered, effectively stopping Dean in his tracks.

Dean leaned up just as Castiel turned his face away, staring at a particularly interesting book stacked in one of the cabinets inside the television stand. “Cas, what’re you—”

“We’ve been living together for a month,” Castiel said, fighting off the tightness in his throat, the pain in his chest that had become sentient in the last few minutes, enveloping his entire body. He was never supposed to fall like this, so helplessly in love with a man he had known for only a scant few days in his life, but there he was, laying on the couch in one of the nicest houses he had ever been in, in an equally quiet neighborhood with no bars on the windows and no threat of flooding whenever it rained. “I… feel like I’ve overstepped.”

Dean made to speak, eventually closing his mouth; Castiel continued in his absence, eyes falling shut. “I’m not like you, Dean. I didn’t… Despite all of my accomplishments and working alongside you, despite fighting my way through the university system, at the end of the day… You’re still my employer. I’m only here because of your charity—”

“Hey.” Dean hushed him with a finger to Castiel’s lips, Castiel blinking up at him in a stupor. The look on Dean’s face shouldn't have shamed him, despondent and worried, eyes shadowed underneath. “You’re not… You’re not some charity case, Cas. I wanted you to live here because I like _you_. Sure, it didn't help you were livin’ in a shithole,” Castiel snorted, turned his face away, “but that don’t matter. What matters is you’re here now, and… I don’t want you to go, either.”

With that, Dean lowered his head to Castiel’s neck, hair tickling his jaw; Castiel held him, probably too tight to handle, his trembling fingers digging into Dean’s back. “You can’t mean that,” Castiel muttered, almost incoherent.

Dean just shook his head and sat up, far enough to where he could run his fingers through Castiel’s hair, catching on a few sweat-dried strands. They really needed to shower, the smell of sex and their mating still heavy in the air, their scents permeating everything around them. “I don’t care if you’re my intern. I wouldn’t care if you were some guy in a coffee shop or ‘f you didn’t speak English. Just… The minute you walked into my office, I didn't wanna let you go. …And I’m spoiled, man. I always get what I want, but… I never even asked you… What do you want?”

With a breath, Castiel exhaled, “You,” and leaned up to kiss Dean’s stubbled jaw; Dean opened his mouth and met his lips next, Castiel letting out a choked moan with the feel of Dean’s tongue swiping over his lower lip. “You’re my mate,” he mentioned, reluctantly pulling away, “but even if you weren’t… I don’t want to impose.” Castiel’s eyes welled as he spurred on, head turned to the side, “You could meet someone else without me, someone better—”

“There’s no one else,” Dean cut him off. Palming Castiel’s cheeks, Dean turned Castiel to face him, their foreheads pressed together. “You’re not a burden, Cas. You never were. Haven’t you noticed how happy you’ve been? How we just… I’ve never met someone like you, and even if I try, I won’t. They’re not gonna be you. None of them’ll ever be you, and I just…” He stopped to wipe his eyes, and immediately Castiel pulled Dean’s hand away, kissing the wetness away from his fingers. “Please, you can’t…”

“I don’t want to,” Castiel assured, voice wavering ever so slightly, even when Dean kissed him again, this time with intent, warm and wet. His heart beat a rapid rhythm, matching Dean’s pace with every breath, every brush of fingers across Castiel’s neck, down to his chest; Castiel held on in desperation, no doubt leaving red indents in the skin between Dean’s shoulder blades, because this— _this_ , he could hold onto for the rest of his life, as long as Dean wanted him there, would never let him go.

“You’re just… You’re everything to me,” Dean said, forlorn; Castiel pet through his hair in consolation, lips itching with the urge to repeat Dean’s words. “I want you here, and I don’t care if you’re not getting paid every week or you don’t think you’re worth the time. But… you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I love you too,” Castiel said, a declaration; this time, Dean kissed away the tear that fell from Castiel’s eye, warm and too intimate, everything Castiel needed. “Like you wouldn’t believe, Dean.”

“Believe it,” Dean laughed, and kissed Castiel’s neck again. Castiel’s heart stuttered with the following words, “Can I…? We never got to…”

“Only if you’d like me to in return,” Castiel added, humored.

Not that an Omega claiming an Alpha was uncommon, but now, it felt more right than anything. Castiel made the first move, kissing along the soft skin of Dean’s neck until Dean fully bared himself, giving himself over to Castiel’s touch. Dean’s moan resonated throughout the room when Castiel bit down, Dean’s body tensing in his grasp, the faint taste of Dean’s blood on his tongue, coppery but sweet all the same. Even after Castiel let up and lapped at the wound, Dean continued to shake, his composure shot, at least until Castiel kissed him again, hands in Dean’s hair. “You’re alright,” Castiel said, and Dean nodded along, eyes pinched shut. “You’re alright, you did good…”

“’S embarrassing,” Dean admitted, cheeks scarlet; he looked cute like that, flushed from his heat and budding arousal, pressing with insistence alongside Castiel’s cock. Not now, though. “C’mon, your turn.”

Castiel chuckled, eyes slipping closed. With that, he allowed Dean to kiss along the juncture of his neck and shoulder, tongue working wonders in calming him, a pleasant distraction to Dean’s teeth sinking in seconds later; all at once, Castiel felt his body burn bright, eyes snapping open and a gasp tearing from his throat. In that moment, he felt all of Dean’s desires, aspirations, betrayals, his very _soul_ flood through his veins, and at once, he understood. Maybe that was what it meant to be mates, to share their body and mind with another person wholly, completely.

If love felt like his heart finally fit right in his chest, then Castiel would hold it tight for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally it's done! I'm not happy with it and I don't think I will be for a while, but hopefully y'all will like it more than I do. Thanks to Liv for betaing and putting up with my constant whining, and for both [SketchyDean](http://sketchydean.tumblr.com) and [Nika](http://nikapics.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful artwork! Couldn't've done it without y'all!
> 
> Title is from the Gary Allan song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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